16. Aaron
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AARON
Well, May has come in with a vengeance of heat and humidity, and Mother Nature is not messing around. I wipe my forehead with the back of my forearm, ignoring the thin layer of sawdust that clings to my skin like a second skin. The Lindsey family’s addition is coming along nicely, but I swear, if Mrs. Lindsey changes her mind one more time about the paint color, or the flooring she wants, or the window shape, I’m going to start charging extra for indecision.
I should’ve known this build would be easy, but the client would be hard. The money’s good though, and I love my time outside of the hardware store. It was the one thing I told my daddy I absolutely had to be able to keep doing, and it hasn’t been a problem yet.
Of course, I’ve only owned the hardware store since January .
I glance at my watch and curse under my breath. “Emma’s going to kill me.” Not gently either—she’ll do it with a smile and a few clever words that will haunt me in the afterlife just before she jabs a thorny rose into my jugular.
I promised her I wouldn’t be late for the park plot assignment meeting, and here I am, still atop a ladder, trying to shimmy a support beam into place. At this rate, I’m going to show up covered in sweat, sawdust, and regret.
“Hey, boss,” Jake, my assistant, calls. He’s young, a little too eager, and still hasn’t figured out that the job isn’t half as glamorous as he thinks. “You good up there?”
“I’m fine,” I say, gritting my teeth as the beam finally slots into place. “Just praying this is the last revision.” I can’t keep putting in orders only to cancel them a few days later.
Jake laughs, but it’s a nervous sound. He’s still not sure when I’m joking and when I’m one moment away from losing it. “You heading out soon? You’ve been checking your watch every five seconds.”
“Yeah.” I climb down the ladder. “I’ve got somewhere to be.” I look around, because maybe Jake can make sure I’m ready for tomorrow.
“Hot date?” Jake smirks, and I shoot him a look that shuts him up faster than a nail gun misfire.
“Can you make sure everything is cleaned up and under the tarp before you go?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Jake.” Emma’s my girlfriend, and we see each other every day, so no, I don’t have a “hot date” tonight, though the thought of her waiting for me at the park does send a flicker of excitement through my chest.
And then, we’re planning a “dare date”—her idea, and I actually can’t wait for that.
I grab my water jug and chug a few swallows as I walk to my truck. I blast the AC the moment I start my vehicle, and the clock on the dashboard tells me I’m ten minutes late leaving the Lindsey site. The drive to the park on Salty Dog shouldn’t take long, but with the way my luck’s been today, I wouldn’t be surprised if I hit every red light between here and there.
The engine rattles as I pull onto Main Street, and I grip the steering wheel. “Come on, girl. I’ll get you fixed this weekend, okay? It’s just a couple more blocks.”
If I were Emma, I’d have named my truck, and I smile again. So maybe I’ve been falling for her a little bit. She’s funny, and I like talking to her, and she makes me feel strong and smart when she compliments me on the quick dinners I make for the two of us.
I like holding her hand, and laying with her on the couch, and kissing her goodnight. She makes me feel less alone, especially now that Liam has Hillary—and his own construction projects—demanding all of his time.
I cross the bridge over the creek, and the park comes into view. It’s a sad sight for sure. The big pit, the dirt, and more dirt, and more dirt. The grass trying to take over everything since it’s unchecked. Thankfully, there’s no structures—no playground equipment or pavilion or picnic tables.
But there’s no structures—no playground equipment or pavilion or picnic tables. And people don’t really want their kids to play in a pit.
As I pull into a parking spot way down on the end, I see it the way Emma does—a blank canvas waiting for someone to bring it to life. My mind darts to the application we submitted together.
I’d done most of the work on it, which was fine with me. Just listening to Emma talk about flowers, paths, benches, a family picnic area, and even “maybe a few pickleball courts, Aaron!” had been enough for me to get the ideas into words and diagrams.
Oh, and the pergolas. I teased her relentlessly about how she could’ve just used the word gazebo , and when she finally got irritated, I kissed her and begged her to forgive me until she couldn’t stop giggling.
Yeah, things are going great between us.
Ahead of me, the group is already moving, and I pick up my step until I’m jogging. Emma’s lingering near the back of the crowd, and she glances over her shoulder. I raise my hand, and I can see the relief paint its way across her face when she sees me.
“Sorry,” I say as I reach her.
“You’re late,” she hisses. “You missed the whole introduction, and Jean almost made me stay behind, since we have a joint application, and you weren’t here.”
I take her hand and immediately decide it’s too humid to hold hands. “Sorry,” I say again. “I lost track of time getting that beam in.”
I pull my hand away before she finds me disgusting and gross and sweaty and wipe my forehead. “It’s so hot.”
Emma carries a clipboard, and she uses it as a fan as we catch up to the group.
Jean Hygrove is leading everyone, and she comes to a stop, which means we all do too. “All right,” she calls in a loud voice. She used to be a high school principal, then retired and now volunteers for the city of Cider Cove. She’s never been married, and I don’t think she’s even ever smiled.
I’ve only ever seen her hair pulled tightly into a bun, and today, she’s added something I would’ve never imagined her wearing—a pair of sunglasses. So the South Carolina summer sun even gets to rigid Jean Hygrove.
“Every applicant will get a one-hundred by one-hundred-foot square. That’s one thousand square feet to build your demonstrative plan for the park. You’ll have the opportunity to have an artist expand your ideas, and we’ll put up those displays before the public and City Council walk through.”
She surveys the crowd, and Emma’s hand finds mine again. She squeezes while I lean toward her. “Are we still on for our dare date after this?”
“Seriously?” she hisses at me. “Focus, Aaron.” She nods to Jean, who’s consulting something in her binder. Yes, a legit binder, out in pit-park, in the mid-afternoon heat.
“This is me focused,” I say. “I’m listening.”
“This plot goes to Jimmy Kitchens,” Jean calls. “Please step out of line when I call your name, and one of our other volunteers will help you mark off your plot. You can get a lay of the land before you leave this afternoon, and please make absolutely sure you check out with me, because I have more directions and instructions for you.”
She somehow pierces each person in the park with her principal glare, and beside me, Emma nods. The Doberman wants to get his plot and leave without checking out with Jean, because I’m sure she could just as easily email me the further documentation I need.
Jean calls someone else’s name a hundred feet down the path, and I wonder if people will be assigned any part of the pit. I really hope not.
Beside me, Emma’s nerves continue to climb and climb and climb, though she looks simply stunning in a summer sundress with her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. My heartbeat skips around, and then I wonder what kind of dare she’s come up with for our date tonight.
Man, my mind really is everywhere right now, and I take a deep breath and try to focus. Usually, I’m way too focused on something, but right now, I feel myself running in fifteen hundred different directions.
“When does this need to be done?” I ask her as someone else gets the next plot.
“The end of June,” she says. “Which is great, because then I’ll have a couple of weeks until Claude’s wedding.”
“When will we find out who wins?”
“They’re letting the public vote for a month,” she says. “Winners announced on August first.” She presses her lips together as if she’s on stage right now, the winner about to be announced.
“This plot goes to Aaron Stansfield and Emma Newberry,” Jean calls, and I raise my hand again, as if she’s called roll.
“Glad to see you made it, Mister Stansfield,” she says. “Gerald will help you with your plot.” She turns and continues down the path while Emma and I stay with the volunteer.
“This is perfect,” she says, her voice breathless.
“Perfect?” I cross my arms as Gerald starts pounding a stake in the back corner of our lot. “Em, it’s all dirt and weedy grass.”
“It’s going to be so beautiful.” She turns to me. “Do you want to do the pergola? It would be such a good representation of what you can build.” Such hope shines in her eyes, and I’ll do anything she says.
I survey the thousand square feet like I’m really considering it. “We could do that, or a picnic area, benches. Covered benches, so they can see I could do a pavilion.”
She sketches something on her clipboard, her pencil scratching against the paper. “I like the idea of a covered bench. That’s quaint and cute.”
“Is that what we’re going for?”
“Think about who’s going to come to the park, baby.” Her eyes are stuck on her sketch, but I suddenly can’t look away from her.
“You just called me baby.”
Emma’s head comes up, her eyes blinking fast. “You don’t like it?”
I swallow and clear my throat. “I really like it.”
She gives me a smile and a quick kiss and says, “All right, baby,” in a super Southern twangy voice.
I chuckle and go help Gerald finish with our plot. There’s not much else we need to do here, and since Emma is still drawing, I say, “I’ll go check out with Jean.”
“Don’t die,” Emma says, and that alone tells me how much danger my life is in.
Ninety minutes later, I’ve showered and Emma’s finished her sketch. She leaves it behind as we go to the hardware store of all places. Giddiness romps through me as I lead her to aisle five, which is tools. “I dare you to make a bouquet fit for a king with only items from this aisle.”
I grin down at the wrenches, the screwdrivers, the ratchet sets.
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not.” I turn my smile on her. “You have one hour.”
“One hour?”
“I want to eat at a decent hour,” I say. “So take me next door and issue me my dare.”
A devilish glint enters her eyes, and she takes my hand on the way back to the flower shop. She keys her way into the back door and then props her hands on her hips and grins as she gestures toward the cold room.
“All right, your next dare involves Sir Chills-a-Lot.”
I blink. “The fridge?”
“Don’t call him the fridge. He gets testy about that.”
I glance toward the gleaming stainless steel door that leads into the room where she does her arrangements. I’ve been in there loads of times, but this is the first I’m hearing that he gets “testy” about his name.
“What’s the dare?”
“You’ve got one hour to organize Sir Chills-a-Lot’s shelves. Perfectly. Every stem and bloom and pampas grass in its proper place, every bucket filled with fresh water.”
“Pampas grass? You just made that up.”
“I would never,” she says. “And, if Sir Chills-a-Lot starts humming weirdly while you’re in there, you have to compliment him. Sincerely. He usually stops then.”
“Compliment a fridge?”
“Sir Chills-a-Lot,” she corrects. “And yes. You wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
I stare at her, trying to keep a straight face. “How will you possibly judge how well I compliment a fridge?”
“I dare you to get Sir Chills cleaned up and complimented, so he won’t break down on me. Do you accept?” She is so sassy and so beautiful, and I don’t even care if I win the dare date or not.
“Emma,” I say, laughing now. “You’ve officially lost it.” And there’s no way I can organize Sir Chills-a-Lot to Emma’s standards, I know that.
“You have one hour,” she says. “From when I text you after I get a basket and get back to aisle five.”
“Don’t forget the duct tape,” I say as she heads for the back door. “Every good tool bouquet needs duct tape.”